Somebody once said, to be strong is to let go. I can’t remember who, or where or when. Or even remember if it was someone I knew.
It’s funny how words can watermark your soul, yet faces or voices are harder to recall. Like cotton candy breath that fades with the sun or an early morning dew that seeps into the earth.
I try to remember who it was, but I can’t. Perhaps they let me go.
Original Photo : http://mrg.bz/651f6e
Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction based around the photo prompt provided. An oasis amidst the sand, pop on over and sample the wares.
Photo Copyright : ceayr
Some nights I still watch from the window. The almost light, chasing shadows over the road. Almost catching, almost touching, but they never do.
Sometimes I wonder if it ever happened at all. Memories are funny like that. One minute they’re so sharp, so vivid that the fear can steal the breath right out of your throat. Then the next just shades, like merging hues that float across your eyes.
They said that she’d left, closed the house and moved away. They said that I had dreamt it, that I was only seven and shouldn’t tell tales.
But I saw, I know I did…
I can curl as tight as a ball and make myself really, really small. Smaller than Buster, because he’s got four legs and smaller than James because he’s eight and he’s a boy and boys can’t curl. Me and Jemima are gonna stay under the bed. I think Jemima’s a bit scared. She doesn’t like the shouting. I’m not scared.
I wrap my arms round Jemima and whisper in her ear. Her ear isn’t there anymore because James pulled it off, but I whisper in the hole a bit louder so she can hear me. I don’t think she’s scared now, because her good eye’s still open. James glued her other eye shut with that sticky stuff that looks like a lipstick. I wasn’t his friend then but he said he didn’t care because girls can’t be friends with boys, it’s not allowed.
The bedroom door opens. Jemima’s scared again so I hug her real tight. But I think I hug her too tight because her head comes off. She doesn’t cry though, she’s good like that. Any hows it happens a lot so I think she’s used to it now. I can see brown shoes standing at the bed. Jemima can’t see them because she’s got no head. The brown shoes are just waiting. ‘brown shoes’ has laces so he must be very old. Mummy said I can have laces in my shoes when I’m a big girl. ‘brown Shoes’ comes nearer the bed. I can see Jemima’s head near his foot. Jemima gets scared again.
It’s all gone quiet now. Jemima doesn’t know what’s happening because ‘brown Shoes’ kicked her head under the dressing table and its dark under there. My knees are getting sorer and sorer and I want to go to the toilet. But ‘brown Shoes’ is still there and I don’t know what to do. I want mummy to come and tell ‘brown Shoes’ to go away.
The door opens a bit more and I can see mummy’s feet. She doesn’t have any socks on but I know it’s her because her toes are red. Mummy says I can have red paint on my toes when I’m a big girl. You can have everything when you’re a big girl. Mummy stands next to ‘brown Shoes’ and they’re making slurping noises, I think they’re eating an apple.
Mummy and ‘brown Shoes’ must be tired because they’re lying down now. They’re still eating apples. Opps, naughty ‘brown Shoes’, he must have had a little accident, because mummy’s made him take his trousers off. Mummy says you don’t have accidents in your pants when you’re a big girl. It must be just girls then, I’m glad I’m a girl.
Mummy’s started saying her prayers now and it’s not even bed time yet. She keeps saying “Oh God” and I’m getting a bit scared because she must have been really naughty. Jemima says she’s hungry so I’m going to come out and ask mummy for one of them apples. I bet she’ll be surprised to see me…
Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction (or thereabouts) based around the weekly photo prompt. Too much fun to miss, follow the link and give it a go.
Photo Copyright : Jean L. Hayes
Thick sand covered the ground, but every now and again a snap of colour bit through the dirt. Reds and blues, hints of green, shades of life and hope.
A kaleidoscope of patterns distorting and reforming under a thousand different footsteps. Never the same, never repeating. Unique.
Tucumcar was like that. Unique.
A neon oasis in the endless dust. A pit-stop for the weary and the hungry. They all came. Used the restroom, filled their bellies and their tyres.
And while they ate, someone sucked the air right back outta them tyres.
Oh they all came, but they never left.
That’s what makes Tucumcar unique you see!
I’m running a bit late this week but didn’t want to miss Friday Fictioneers. Who could resist a 100 words of fiction, a bite size bit of fun that’s less calories than a treat size Snickers.
Photo Copyright : Peter Abbey
Do you wanna hold it
It’s clean, promise. Mary Jane said it was.
Mary Jane don’t know what clean is,
Yeah she does, she showed me hers. It was all pink and clean and smelt of oranges.
I don’t like oranges,
No me neither. Go on, just hold it,
Ok, but just once, it don’t mean nowt if I do it once,
It don’t mean nowt anyway, I did it with Mary Jane, Mary Maude and twice with Billy Ray, cos he let go.
Alright, but it better be quick.
Just hold my hand will ya, you talk too much.
Once more unto the breach…. or so the story goes. I’ve missed Friday Fictioneers for the last few weeks but great to catch up again. A 100 words of fiction based on the weekly photo prompt. Grab a seat, pull up a stole, sit awhile and read…
Photo Copyright : Claire Fuller
He glared. She felt a hand reach in, grip her heart and squeeze.
“a penny for your thoughts” he growled, making her gasp and step back. Fear stealing her voice.
He raised an eyebrow.
He raised the other.
Afraid of his answer but needing to know, “Can I get them back” she whispered.
“Nay, you sell em, I own em” he snarled.
Trembling, she held out her hand as cold nickel scorched her palm.
A moment later, on the back wall, the shelves were no longer empty.
She didn’t think about that. She didn’t think at all…
Friday Fictioneers, an eclectic mix of creativity that wets the appetite and feeds the soul. A 100 words of fiction to fuel any weary traveler. Follow the link and join the caravan.
In an alleyway of red brick, a single street lamp flickered erratically. The smell of rot and decay so pungent, even the rats held their nose and scurried off.
It was raining. The relentless downpour, powerless to dilute the stench.
Then amidst the deluge, a beacon.
An open shop doorway.
Hints of honey and bees wax teasing the nose. Warmth, settling over shoulders chasing away the chill.
The air singing of bygone days of grandeur and romance, of visitors and expectations. Like catching ghosts off guard, running through the shadows, slipping back into the walls.
Another stitch in time.
Another re-visit this week, this time from Jan 15. Friday Fictioneers is a 100 words of fiction based on a weekly changing photo prompt. Just dabble your feet in the water and jump right in.
Photo Copyright : Georgia Koch
I watch as the skies turn darker, as the mist sweeps in from the shore. I feel the chill seep into my centre and the tightness take hold of my soul. I know that the tide is turning, that the storm is upsetting the calm, but I can’t stay away from the danger and I can’t accept the alarm.
I drown in a sea of dejection, swallowed up by a swale of regret. Adrift in a small wooden tender, only steered by the oars of lament.
I know there’s no land on the horizon, we are just ships that passed in the night.